COLUMN: Bone

I was done.

After 30 years of spending most weekends behind the DJ decks at clubs and parties, I told myself it was officially time to retire from my longtime side gig. Then I got a call from my pal Bone.

I've known Chris Bone for years. If you worked in the QC entertainment industry, you couldn't NOT know Bone. Maybe he carded you when he worked as a bouncer. Maybe he booked you when he managed bars. Maybe you knew him from his on-air radio alter-ego, Chris Michaels. Bone was one of those guys you ran into all over the place.

That day, he was calling with a plea. He'd found financial backing and was about to fulfill his life-long dream of opening a country bar in Rock Island. "I need you in that DJ booth, man."

"Sorry, man," I quickly replied. "I'm out of the game. And I'm not a country DJ, you know that."

"I don't want a country DJ," he said. "I want YOU. Play a few country songs after the band gets done, then do what you do. Play whatever it takes to get college kids in the door. We'll be a country bar early and a party bar late." 

I tried to give him names of other DJs to try, but he was relentless. "You're the only one I trust. Say yes."

After a half-dozen phone calls, I relented and told him I'd help out for a couple weeks. Those weeks turned into months, and those months turned into a year. In that time, the hard-working staff at Billy Bob's Redneck Party Bar became more like a second family -- and together endured every curve fate could possibly throw at that poor joint. We presevered through heatwaves, snowstorms, band cancellations, street violence, and even COVID. Sadly, no hard work could overcome the city council's decision to shutter Rock Island District bars an hour early, and it wasn't long before Billy Bob's held its last rodeo.

Bone lost his bar, but not his entrepreneurial spirit. Last week, he was set to announce his new venture as a solar energy provider in the Quad Cities. But Chris never showed to that final meeting. When they sent someone to his house to check on him, they found him gone. His ridiculously big heart gave out at the unfathomable age of 43. It's everyone's loss.

In a 33-1/3rd world, Chris Bone lived at 45 rpm -- never slowing down, never compromising. I remember one night leaving Billy Bob's utterly exhausted around 4 a.m. "Get some sleep, dude," I said on my way out the door. 

"Yeah, I probably should," he replied.

I went home and crashed out. I woke up hours later to phone calls telling me to turn on the TV. There, on ESPN, was Chris playing bags live on College Gameday. Turns out he had left Billy Bob's and drove straight to Kinnick Stadium to not miss a second of Hawkeye football. Hours after THAT, he was posting to Facebook from the floor of a poker tournament in Vegas. That's just how he rolled.

Bone could be a real pain sometimes. There's nothing he liked better than stirring the pot. If he thought you did him wrong, he had no reservations airing that laundry on Facebook for all to see. We rarely saw eye-to-eye and bickered over politics constantly. One of his friends said it best: If heaven has social media, Bone's probably up there now tring to somehow blame Joe Biden for his death. But you always knew to take every word he said with a laugh, because even he didn't even take himself seriously. 

Behind the bravado, though, lived one of the most compassionate dudes I've ever known. The guy who would sneak into hospitals to see friends after visiting hours. The guy who'd risk his health to bring food to COVID-quarantined friends. The guy who'd leave a party early to play euchre with his senior-citizen neighbors. The guy who found a pregnant cat and adopted her AND all the kittens because he couldn't bear to separate a family. The guy who came running anytime you were having a crisis.

Chris Bone taught me life should be lived, and that's why I didn't stop DJing even after Billy Bob's closed. At my gig last weekend, Bone and his wife showed up unannounced. He rolled up with just a smile and a fist-bump because he knew I was busy and stressed out. But even just a reassuring head nod was enough to boost my confidence.

The day he passed, I discovered a text I'd overlooked from the weekend. He sent it at 7:50 a.m. on Sunday morning, just hours after he'd stopped by the club. "Your mixes last night were fire. You make it seem so easy, but it was flawless, man. Right crowd, right songs. The wife loved it. I loved it. You're the man." Those are the last words I'll ever hear from him.

Always encouraging. Loyal to a fault. A true friend. A goofy, lumpy force of nature. Give heaven some hell, Bone.